Page 44 of Hell Bent
He lifted the backpack he was wearing over one shoulder. “I’ve got it.”
“You didn’t bring any stuff?”
“Why? I’m not going to be staying.”
That took some thought. In the end, I said, “Well, you’re here now, so let’s go. We can talk about it at my place. You hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, then,” I said. “I’ll fix you a sandwich at home.”
His feet stilled. “I thought we could get, like, Tim Hortons.”
“No Tim Hortons here,” I said.
“You’re kidding.” He looked as appalled as if I’d told him Americans only ate cat food. “OK, McDonald’s.”
“Another no. I need to eat lunch myself, and I can’t eat that stuff before a game.”
“The game’s tomorrow.”
“It is. And I need to be ready for it. Come on. Let’s go.”
He didn’t say anything during the walk to the parking garage, just put his headphones in and his head down, probably listening to his music, and I tried and failed to think of suitable topics of conversation. Asking about his mom would be tricky right now, and I wasn’t sure what else to talk about. When I approached my car, he pulled out the headphones and asked, “This yours?”
“Yep.”
“Do you have, like, a more NFL car at home?” he asked, making no move to climb in.
“No. I have one car. I’m one person.”
“If I was playing in the NFL,” he said, “I’d have a Lamborghini. Or at least a Porsche 911.”
“Yeah? Which trim line on the Porsche?”
“Carrera GTS,” he said, with more enthusiasm than he’d shown for anything else so far. “It’s a hybrid, but it still does 0 to 60 in under 3. And it’s not an SUV like you’re a soccer mom.”
“Only one problem with that.”
He looked at me suspiciously. “What?”
“Can’t fit a golden retriever in it,” I said, and opened the door.
We were met by ecstasy. Lexi was shoving her furry face forward, sniffing my cheek, barely overcoming her urge to lick—we’d been working on that one—her wildly wagging tail banging against the window with awhack, whack, whack.She transferred her attentions to Ben, then, and he put up a hand to pet her, which was a good sign. “What I do have,” I told him, “is a dog. This is Lexi. She’s a rescue dog. A grateful one, obviously. We’re still getting to know each other.”
“She’s cool,” he said. “My mom never let me have a dog.”
“Same. Though it was my dad in my case. He said it was too much trouble.”
“My mom says dogs are dirty,” Ben said.
“Mm. Probably true, especially in Portland. We have a whole routine after we come back from walks, but the floor can still get a little crunchy. I need to buy one of those stick vacuum cleaners. Put on your seatbelt.”
“I don’t need it. Don’t you have to have, like, good reflexes or something? Which means you won’t crash.”
“Except that it’s the law. Put it on.”
He sighed, but he did it, and I relaxed a little. When we were out of the garage and on the ring road, I asked, “How’s your mom?”
